


Fey Children

by craigstalldaddy



Category: South Park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craigstalldaddy/pseuds/craigstalldaddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those who are wise know not to go into the forest, for those who are wise know that in the forest lies only agony and misfortune. Will you be wise, or stray into the darkness, fey child?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kyle

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was based off of the PC game, The Path, by Tale Of Tales. I highly recommend you play it! Also, this is meant to read like an old fairy tale.

Fey Children:  
Kyle  
Once upon a time, there was a small clearing up in the mountains. And, in that clearing, sat a small town. Everyone in this town new the other and no one was left a stranger, even if they wanted to be. But, the town was small, and only one road existed. This one road was the only road that led you safely in and out, and those who were wise did not dare stray from this road. For those who were wise knew that off of the road was only a dark forest, and in the darkness of the forest would linger misfortune and agony. Those who went into the forest where nothing short of doomed.  
In the small town lived young boy named Kyle. Young Kyle was a lean boy, with pale skin and orange curls that he kept tucked under his green hat. He was blessed with outstanding morals and it was never in his head to wrong the innocent. He could always do well in his schoolwork and would always be home before his curfew. He’d care for his infant brother and watch after his younger soul, and tend to his mother and father when they fall ill.  
But, young Kyle was cursed with a temper, and would roar at those who dared to wrong him. His enemies knew him as rash, and onlookers thought him to be explosive. Perhaps some even thought of him to be a tad bit too harsh, but those who thought so would never say so. It was not uncommon for the young boy to scream and raise his fist.  
Present, young Kyle had a clear head, and was given a small basket full of candies made by his mother to deliver.  
“My son, won’t you run to the next town and give these candies to your aunt?” his mother asked.  
“Of course, mother,” young Kyle said.  
“Remember not to stray into the forest, my son,” his mother said. But Kyle was deemed wise, and promised not to stray.  
With the basket in his hand, the young boy set out on his journey, true to his word. He made it outside of the town by the road and did not dare consider treading into the forest. The sky above him was clear, and not a single cloud lingered in the blue, and the sun lit the way outside the trees.  
But then, when he was far from the town on the road, a rock struck his arm and the basket of candies from his mother fell to the ground. Young Kyle looked all around, only to find no one in sight. He stepped over to the direction the rock came from, peering into the forest with a boiling anger.  
In the forest stood a figure, cloaked by the fog that lingered in the darkness. The figure reached down to the ground to pick up another rock, and threw it hard at the boy’s leg. Kyle took a step towards the figure, but the figure turned and ran away.  
Enraged, Kyle sprinted towards his attacker. He entered the darkness of the forest, where fog hung in the air and the only light poked in through small breaks in the tree tops. Squirrels and other small rodents crawled along the forest floor, running from young Kyle as he hurried by.  
He continued to chase after his attacker until he lost sight of him, only to find that he no longer knew which way to go. His anger subsided upon this recognition and was replaced by unsteadiness. He looked all around, but everywhere looked the same. He ambled confusedly around the forest, but the trees seemed endless and the darkness never turned to light.  
When his feet grew tired and his legs grew sore, he sat down on the cold ground with his back against a tall tree. His temper grew hot and he began to shake with rage. He threw stones from the ground beside him at a nearby tree and cursed under his breath.  
When young Kyle looked up from his feet, he could see another young boy standing before him. The other boy was dressed in a large orange parka, much too big for his small body, with the hood pulled over his head, which hung like a dead man’s. His hands were bloody and his eyes were vacant as they lingered on the ground, half closed. Young Kyle sprung to his feet upon seeing him and screamed, “It’s you who threw rocks at me!”  
The mysterious boy said nothing, but turned around and hurried away. Young Kyle, angry and impatient, ran after him, screaming, “Come back here!” But the boy in orange didn’t stop, and he kept running and running, until finally, the road was back in view.  
Kyle stepped out of the forest and turned to face the boy in orange, but he was already gone. The young boy frowned hard and stepped out into the sunlight. The road was still just as empty as it had been throughout his journey so far, and not even a bird stood in his sight. The boy, having realized he lost his mother’s basket of candies, began to hurry back the way that he came with the hopes that, perhaps, he might be forgiven by his mother and be able to find the basket still on the road.  
But, when he finally did find the basket, when his feet grew blistered and his legs moved painfully, and the sigh boiled his anger. The basket had been emptied out onto the pavement, each candy crushed and torn, with shoe prints embedded onto the sweets. Young Kyle gave an angry cry at the sight and looked around for who could have done this. He spotted no one at first, but then his eyes finally settled on a black figure that stood motionless in the trees. There was no doubt in young Kyle’s mind that this was, indeed, the one who had ruined his mother’s candies, and quite possibly even the one who had thrown stones at him.  
“Hey, you!” Young Kyle cried out, sprinting towards the figure. But, the figure moved swiftly against the trees, and his black attire and dark hair blended him in with the darkness inside the trees. That didn’t stop the young child from sprinting into the forest after him.  
Frustrated, the boy was blind to his surroundings, and didn’t notice the small, weak fence before him, and ran into the flimsy wooden structure. He and the portion of the fence tumbled down and many splinters poked into young Kyle’s cheeks, hands, and arms. He gave out a sharp cry of pain and crawled along the dirt, only to evoke an even worse pain in his left leg. The young boy looked down to his leg, only to discover a large, pointed piece of wood tearing his trousers and scraping into his flesh. He tried to pull his leg away from the wood, but only succeeded in widening his injuries.  
He looked up from his wounded body, and saw two young boys standing side by side before him, too far to touch. One was the boy in orange with the vacant, dead eyes and a hanging head, and the other was the boy he chased, a young boy of the same height as the one in orange, and dressed in all black with dark hair contrasting pale skin, his eyes thoughtful. The boy in orange sang a mysterious song with strained “la la la la la la la,”s and scared “ha, ha, ha, ha,”s.  
Young Kyle looked back to his leg, which had begun to gush out blood onto the dirt. With tears in his eyes, the boy looked back to the other two, but they were already gone, and the young boy was all alone in the forest with his wound.  
Quietly, a mysterious voice sung out from nowhere, “La…la.”


	2. Bebe

Fey Children:  
Bebe  
Once upon a time, there was a small clearing up in the mountains. And, in that clearing, sat a small town. Everyone in this town new the other and no one was left a stranger, even if they wanted to be. But, the town was small, and only one road existed. This one road was the only road that led you safely in and out, and those who were wise did not dare stray from this road. For those who were wise knew that off of the road was only a dark forest, and in the darkness of the forest would linger misfortune and agony. Those who went into the forest where nothing short of doomed.  
In this town lived a young girl named Bebe. Bebe was blessed with beauty, and had long, blonde curls that flowed down her back, and a thin figure she dressed in fine sweaters and skirts. All the boys of her age loved her looks, and perhaps even loved her for her looks. But she did not mind, so long as they were kind.  
But, young Bebe was cursed with an unsightly eagerness for both acceptance and love. This desire drove her to spend more than her parents would like on clothes and shoes, and follow all the trends set by both herself and her peers, even if she didn’t quite like them. She would even allow herself to lie to gain the things that others would love her for having, at the cost of another person’s reputation and self esteem.  
Today, however, the young girl felt important, and was asked to deliver a pair of shoes to the next town over.  
“My daughter, take these shoes to your nephew, and remember not to stray into the forest,” her mother told her.  
“Of course, mother,” Bebe agreed, and she was deemed wise enough not to wander off into the darkness that lurked in the forest.  
With the box in her hand, she left the town on the road. Only a cloud or two hung in the sky, and the sun was still bright and warm in the chilly air. Occasionally, the young girl would stop and skip to the side of the road to pick a flower that bloomed between the road and the forest, smell them, and toss them in the box with the shoes.  
But, along her way, young Bebe came across an abandoned basket that sat in the road. Candies and sweets of many kinds sat scattered around the basket and were trampled and destroyed. The young girl sat down her shoe box and picked up the basket to investigate it, only to be interrupted by a heavy set of footsteps behind her that she had not heard before.  
She looked behind her, startled to find a boy her age wearing an orange parka that was much too big for him. His head hung low to the side like a dead man’s, with the hood pulled his head. His eyes were lifeless as they watched the ground, and his hands and shins were painted with blood. The boy parted his lips, but said nothing, and raised his right hand to wag a scolding finger at the young girl.  
“Who are you?” she asked.  
The boy in orange didn’t say a word, and instead, grabbed her wrist and pulled her away from the basket and her shoe box.  
“Let go of me!”  
But the boy still dragged her along behind him, and ignored her protests and cries until they were a few yards away from the basket. Then, he faced her yet again, and wagged his finger once more.  
“Was there something bad about the basket?”  
The boy nodded and opened his arms wide.  
Bebe gave him a soft, unsure hug, only to end with him walking towards the forest. “Hey, wait,” she called, and followed the boy in orange.  
But, the boy in orange began to run from her, and fled into the darkness of the forest. Bebe followed him with only slight hesitation into the forest, where fog hung low at her ankles and heels. The young girl after him through the forest, but her eyes grew strained, as the only light in the forest came from the few breaks in the tree canopies.  
Finally, the boy stopped and turned to young Bebe, shooing her off with a flick of his wrists. But the girl shook her head and cried out, “No way!”  
He shooed her away again with more force in his gesture, but still she refused. The young boy closed his eyes and moved about the forest, bringing young Bebe along behind him. He danced small dances and sang odd songs, touched his hands to small forest creatures, who bit him and caused him to bleed from the hands. But, he never let out a cry or yelp, nor did he ever say a thing, and the only sound that came from his mouth was the odd, soft songs that he sang to himself.  
The two walked and walked until the boy in orange swiftly turned behind a tree and hid. Young Bebe peaked behind the tree where the boy should be, but only found that he had vanished. The girl looked all around for him, not a single person was in view.  
Young Bebe began to cry, running all around for the sight of the boy in orange. She cried and cried, her sobs got louder and harder as she went on. She wandered in the darkness, choking against her weeping, and even threw up in the fog. Sick from the bawling, she still did not stop looking for him.  
But then, young Bebe fell down into a deep hole, so deep she could hardly see out of it. She screamed out for help, jumping up to grab the dirt to pull herself out. But it failed, and with every leap and grab, she’d come tumbling back down into the dirt hole.  
A hand reached into the whole, sleeved in thick, orange fabric, and reached for her. She went to grab the hand from outside the whole, but before she could, a shovel came crashing onto her head. She collapsed onto the dirt, her forehead bleeding from the impact. All she could hear was a soft, familiar voice singing nearby. It sang out agonized and edgy “la la la la la la la,”s and nervous “ha, ha, ha, ha,”s. With tearful eyes, the young girl lost consciousness, and bled in the whole.  
The boy in orange stood outside the hole, his head still hanging low and his eyes still expressionless and empty. Beside him stood a boy of the same height dressed in all black with dark hair, in his pale hands was a bloodied shovel. The boy in orange sang, “La la la la la la la,” to which the boy in black smiled and finished, “La…la.”


	3. Pip

Fey Children:  
Pip  
Once upon a time, there was a small clearing up in the mountains. And, in that clearing, sat a small town. Everyone in this town new the other and no one was left a stranger, even if they wanted to be. But, the town was small, and only one road existed. This one road was the only road that led you safely in and out, and those who were wise did not dare stray from this road. For those who were wise knew that off of the road was only a dark forest, and in the darkness of the forest would linger misfortune and agony. Those who went into the forest where nothing short of doomed.  
In this town lived a young boy named Pip. Young Pip was a thin young boy with strong arms and blonde hair that reached his pointed chin and was kept lidded with a brown cap. Pip was blessed with intelligence, and was much smarter than the other children his age, and even smarter than some of their parents. Though he was quiet and hardly spoke up, the young boy could identify Charles Dickens’s writing, and Edgar Allan Poe’s, and could solve his math problems with ease.  
But, young Pip was cursed with loneliness. None of the boys his age enjoyed his company, and claimed that he was too odd. They claimed that his accent was annoying and different, and that his foreign background was much too silly. So, the young boy played games by himself, or tagged quietly along in the back of a large group. The young boy was even an orphan, and dwelled quietly in the town’s orphanage.  
Today, Pip had been asked by the manager of the orphanage to return some books to a library in the next town.  
“Young Pip, won’t you be a dear and take these books back to the library in the next town?” he had been asked.  
“Of course, sir,” he had agreed.  
“Don’t you dare go into the forest, young Pip.”  
“Of course, sir,”  
And so, the young boy was deemed wise, and set out with his bag full of books. Few clouds hung in the sky, and the sun beamed down on the road as young Pip made his way along. A cool breeze blew in the air, which had Pip often adjusting his cap.  
Young Pip made his way calmly down the road, when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a hand reaching out from the forest to his right. The boy gazed at the extended arm, sleeved in black, but could make no sense of who might own it, as the fog in the forest was much too thick, and the forest was much too dark. The words of his caretakers rang through Pip’s head, and he remembered not to dare tread into the forest. So, with his chin raised confidently, he turned away from the arm, and kept walking along the road.  
But, after walking a few more yards, the young boy saw a most confusing sight. There, on the pavement, sat mashed up treats, a mistreated basket, and a shoe box full of flowers from the grass beside the road. Young Pip looked to his left, and saw no one. He looked to his right, and saw no one.  
The boy set down his bag and picked up the shoe box, taking off the lid and picking out a handful of colorful flowers. Quickly, he gave one more look to the right, and spotted a figure leaning against a tree.  
“Are these your flowers?” Young Pip asked.  
The figure shook his head softly.  
“Whose are they?”  
The figure shrugged his shoulders.  
“Do you know where they went?”  
The figure pointed into the forest.  
“Why on earth would someone go in there?”  
The figure stepped out from the fog, but still lingered in the shadows. Now young Pip could see him better, and could see that he was a boy the same age, dressed in all black, with dark hair and contrasting pale skin, and thoughtful eyes. He stood with perfect posture and his chin up and gave a smile to the young boy. Silently, the boy in all black gestured him drinking tea and pointed back into the darkness.  
“She’s drinking tea? In the forest!”  
The boy in black pointed to Pip, then to himself, and gestured drinking tea again.  
“You want to drink tea with me?”  
The boy in black nodded slowly.  
The young boy considered this option carefully, but eventually he ran to the boy in black and joined him in the forest. The two walked along the forest, the fog up to their upper thighs, and the light grew dim as they went deeper into the forest. Neither of them spoke to one another, although the boy in black did hum an unfamiliar tune that seemed quite uplifting. The two walked for what felt like an hour, until they finally reached a small, rustic playground.  
“I don’t see anyone here,” young Pip said.  
But the boy in black ignored him, and stepped over to an old, worn-down swing-set covered in rust. He stood behind the swing and gestured over to the young boy to sit down.  
Young Pip agreed, and sat down on the rusty thing. The boy in black pushed him gently on the swing set. Pip rocked back and forth on the swing with a smile on his face. In the darkness that was the forest, he’d never felt happier.  
But then, nearby footsteps could be heard, and the boy in black grabbed the chain that supported the swing’s seat. Another boy came over to the two, dressed in an oversized orange parka with the hood pulled over his head, which hung down lifelessly. His legs and his hands were dressed with blood, and he raised a bloody finger to the boy in black, but kept his dead eyes on the ground. He shook his head, and wagged a scolding finger at the young boy on the swing, then gestured for him to leave with a flick of the wrist.  
And just like that, the swing set was engulfed in flames, burning young Pip’s buttocks, hands, and thighs. The young boy leaped from the flames, landing on the ground with a loud, sharp cry. The boy in black just simply smiled at his distress and pulled him back onto his feet. Young Pip let out a sob as he was pulled off the ground, and tried to put the boy in black away, but the boy just pulled him close to his chest and held him dearly.  
The young boy didn’t fight this friendly gesture, and hugged the boy in black back, wiping away his tear-filled eyes. But, the boy in black was too warm. Much too warm, his skin and his clothes felt as though they were burning young Pip from the touch, and it only got more and more hot as the seconds passed. Eventually, the boy in black was devoured in flames. He screamed and flailed, but the boy in black refused to let go, and the young Pip was burnt in his arms.  
Quietly, the boy in orange began to sing a tune unfamiliar to young Pip, one of many forced, tense “la la la la la la la,”s and uneasy “ha, ha, ha, ha,”s. He shut his eyes from the sight of young Pip buring in the flames that emitted off of the boy in black’s body.  
Finally, the young boy let out a final whimper of agony, and collapsed in the other boy’s arms. The flames stopped, and the boy in black released Pip, letting him fall onto the cold, foggy floor as a burnt mess. In finalization, he ended the other boy’s song, “La…la.”


	4. Tweek

Fey Children:  
Tweek  
Once upon a time, there was a small clearing up in the mountains. And, in that clearing, sat a small town. Everyone in this town new the other and no one was left a stranger, even if they wanted to be. But, the town was small, and only one road existed. This one road was the only road that led you safely in and out, and those who were wise did not dare stray from this road. For those who were wise knew that off of the road was only a dark forest, and in the darkness of the forest would linger misfortune and agony. Those who went into the forest where nothing short of doomed.  
In this town lived a young boy named Tweek, who was a thin lad with a trembling frame and messy blonde hair. He was a young boy blessed with excellent baking skills, and could make wonderful breads, coffees, cakes, or muffins. He was the best of his age, thanks to his parents’ experience in the coffee business.   
But, young Tweek was cursed with crippling anxiety, and would tremble all hours of day, and couldn’t even find the courage to sleep. He was scared of even his own shadow, and could spend hours upon hours researching conspiracies. Most kids had grown used to his constant yelps of terror.  
But, today, young Tweek was not researching conspiracies, though he was still on edge, and had been asked to take a bag of ingredients to a close friend of his parents in the next town.  
“My dear son, won’t you take these ingredients to our friends in the next town?” his father said.  
“Ah! Of course, father,” young Tweek said.  
“My dear son, please remember not to tread in the forest outside of town.”  
“Oh, never!” the young boy said, and was deemed wise, and set out on the road.  
The sky was cloudy and the air was cold. Leaves blew onto the road and the trees in the forest rocked and bustled in the wind. Young Tweek did not dare even consider going into the forest, though his eyes did scan the forest around him, and every time a leaf blew too close to him, he’d let out a loud, fearful cry.  
The young boy pulled at his hair and regretted ever stepping foot on the road, but his unease grew more crippling as he stepped up to a peculiar pile of objects. On the pavement, all together, sat a bag of many books, a box of shoes and some flowers, stomped on candies, and a mistreated basket. But, the most horrifying feature of this collection was the young boy accompanying these items. He was a young boy of Tweek’s age, dressed in an orange parka with a limp head that was covered by his hood. His eyes were inert, a thick, fresh trail of blood came down from his nostrils, onto his parted lips, and down his chin, and his hands and legs were dressed in blood and dirt.  
The boy in orange stood among these objects and looked at nothing, for his eyes already appeared to be dead. Young Tweek gave out a terrified cry. Quickly, Tweek dropped his things and turned away to run from the boy. But, the boy in orange followed him, and the young boy panicked, and ran into the forest. He ran and he ran, flinching and crying at every rodent that crawled at his feet, waving at the fog that went up to his midriff in hope that it would go away.  
The young boy didn’t even stop when he turned his head to look behind him, finding that the boy in orange still trailed behind him. He sped up, but only ended up smacking his body against a firm, tall tree. Young Tweek fell onto his back in the fog, his head spinning and his body aching. He whimpered and yelped, and let out a terrified cry he was pulled by the arm against the sticks and leaves of the ground. He turned over on his stomach, spotting a boy dressed in all black with dark hair and pale skin dragging him by the arm across the ground and against all of his yelps of protest.  
“Let me go!” he cried, tugging his hand from the firm grasp of the other boy. Once he was free, he quickly pulled himself to his feet and fled, snagging his shirt against a low branch in the process. He was stuck and confused, and let out another cry of horror.  
The boy in black stood before him with a thoughtful, otherworldly gaze in his demented eyes. His hands fixated themselves roughly on the boy’s neck, but did not choke him. Instead, the young boy was forced to stare into his attacker’s eyes as they thought out his doom, and pended on what horror should take place.  
Young Tweek hyperventilated and his chest felt as though it was about to explode. His thoughts raced, but they all lead back to his impending demise. His stomach even churned with sickness and his eyes bulged wide open with immense horror, even though he could hardly see out of them. And then, his brain stopped, and everything stopped, and Tweek no longer trembled fearfully, nor did his heart feel so though it were going to burst from his chest, nor did his stomach churn with sickness. With one, last gasp of fear, the young Tweek stopped.  
But then, the hands slipped from his neck, and the boy in black was kicked down to the ground and replaced by the boy in orange. His hands touched young Tweek securely and searchingly. “La la la la la la la,” he sang quietly, his dead eyes filling with tears. He took a step back, allowing young Tweek to collapse onto the dirt, and shut his eyes, and sang again, “La la la la la la la.”  
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” the boy in black sang. They sang their song together in strained peace. They sang and sang, until the boy in orange was in calm tears. He sat down on the ground beside the boy in black, finishing the song with a sad and hopeless, “La…la.”


	5. Gregory

Once upon a time, there was a small clearing up in the mountains. And, in that clearing, sat a small town. Everyone in this town new the other and no one was left a stranger, even if they wanted to be. But, the town was small, and only one road existed. This one road was the only road that led you safely in and out, and those who were wise did not dare stray from this road. For those who were wise knew that off of the road was only a dark forest, and in the darkness of the forest would linger misfortune and agony. Those who went into the forest where nothing short of doomed.  
In this town lived a young boy named Gregory, who was an elegant child with flawlessly done, blonde hair that he gelled with skill. Young Gregory was blessed talent. The boy was talented in almost anything he tried, especially in politics. It was common for others to see him reading about many past leaders, and finding ways that they could’ve done better in reign.  
But, young Gregory was cursed with smugness, and would constantly overestimate himself. Hardly ever would he allow others to lead in things that involved him, as he truly believed he could do it better. He’d look down upon the other boys, and always correct those who have misspoken.  
Today, young Gregory was eager for an adventure, and sought out to deliver some maps to his friend in the next town.  
“I shall be back soon, mother,” he told his mother.  
“Be back before supper, my son, and do not go into the forest,” his mother told him.  
“Of course, mother,” he said, and was deemed wise, and set out with the maps in his hands.  
The sky was dark with stormy clouds and the air was chilling and cold. The trees rustled in the cold wind, and small animals hurried up their trees for protection. But, Young Gregory was not worried, for he knew he could make it to his destination and back before a storm comes. So, the young boy held his head high and made his way down the road.  
He walked and walked, until he came to a part of the road where many items had been left. There sat a bag of sweets, a bag of books, a shoebox full of flowers and a pair of shoes, and a basket that had its content spilled onto the pavement and stepped on. Young Gregory, holding tightly onto his maps, looked around the area, but only found a trail of stepped on sweets leading into the forest.  
“Well, if they can go into the forest, so can I,” young Gregory said, raising his head even higher. He turned to enter the forest, but was caught but a firm hand that was owned by a boy his age, but slightly shorter. He was dressed in an oversized, orange parka with the hood pulled over his head. His eyes were lifeless and his head hung to the side. Blood coated his legs, his hands, and his wrists, and a thick, wet trail of fresh blood dripped down from his nose, onto his lips, down his chin, and onto his parka, along with a splash of blood on his cheeks and forehead.  
Young Gregory greeted him with a scowl, and pushed him away. “Who are you?” he asked.  
The boy in orange parted his lips, but said nothing, and wagged his finger in scolding.  
“Are you trying to tell me not to go into the forest?”  
The boy in orange nodded slowly.  
“I’ve gone in there before, and I can go in there again! Just you watch. I can stay safe where the others can’t.”  
The boy in orange shook his head.  
“Hold these!” Young Gregory ordered, passing the maps to the boy in orange, who let the all fall to the ground. Gregory groaned, but dismissed them, and ran into the forest.  
Unfortunately, he had lied about being in the forest before, and had no idea why so many people believed there to be evil inside of it. So, young Gregory kept walking aimlessly, pretending as though he was familiar with it all as the boy in orange followed. The boy in orange sang a strange song as he trailed behind young Gregory, one with a sad tune and a hint of knowing.  
The two walked and walked. They searched around trees and looked in bushes until, finally, young Gregory realized that he was lost. The boy in orange grabbed young Gregory’s hand and tugged in to the left, but the boy refused, and claimed that he could find his own way out.  
They continued to tread forward, until finally something new came into view. It was a boy, sitting in the dirt, dressed in all black with dark hair and pale skin. In front of the boy sat a collection of tea cups on a table cloth and a tea kettle in the center of them. He smiled at young Gregory excitedly and dismissed the boy in orange with a flick of his wrists. The boy in orange grabbed a hold of Gregory’s wrist and tugged him back, but only received a smack on the arm and a scowl from the unmoving Gregory.  
The boy in black offered a cup to young Gregory, handing it out to him with a hopeful expression. The boy in orange tugged on Gregory again, wagging a scolding finger.  
“Oh come now, even if he did poison the drinks, I can get better, I know I can. My immune system is incredible, not to mention the medical attention I can receive if I just ask for it,” young Gregory said with a superior smile. The young boy pulled away from the boy in orange and sat down at the table cloth.  
The boy in black handed him a tea cup and poured him some tea. Then, he poured his own glass, and took drank it fast. Young Gregory took a sip, and smiled in triumph at the boy in orange. The boy in orange did not a thing, and only stood silently with his eyes to the ground.  
“I told you I would be fine. I can tell when people are up to no good,” young Gregory boasted.  
But then, young Gregory began feel something bubble in his throat. It came up into his mouth, and so he coughed out whatever it was onto his hand. He examined the bubbly, red goo that he’d just vomited, but before he could call it anything at all, the red goo spilled from his mouth. With horror, he gagged out his blood, dropping his tea cup and hurrying to his feet in panic.  
The boy in orange began to cry, singing a tune full of many sad “la la la la la la la,”s and miserable “ha, ha, ha, ha”s.  
Young Gregory fell to his knees and began to cough violently, with blood spitting from his mouth with every cough. His blood splattered onto his clothes, and onto the cloth, and on the boy in black, who watched the scene with a smile. The boy chocked and coughed, until he ran out of air, and fell onto the dirt.  
In finalization, the boy in black ended the song, singing, “La…la.”


	6. Stan

Once upon a time, there was a small clearing up in the mountains. And, in that clearing, sat a small town. Everyone in this town new the other and no one was left a stranger, even if they wanted to be. But, the town was small, and only one road existed. This one road was the only road that led you safely in and out, and those who were wise did not dare stray from this road. For those who were wise knew that off of the road was only a dark forest, and in the darkness of the forest would linger misfortune and agony. Those who went into the forest where nothing short of doomed.  
In the town lived a young boy named Stan. Young Stan had an athletic figure and dark hair, which he kept under a red and blue poof-ball hat. He was blessed with kindheartedness, and would never let an innocent animal suffer.  
But Stan was also cursed by this blessing, as he was much too caring, indeed. It was not uncommon for young Stan to have found himself sucked into an adventure much larger than he’d hoped for because of his compassion for living things. Many times had the boy done so in the past, involving himself and others, and often getting hurt.  
But today, Stan had been at his aunt’s house, and was caught in the rain on his way back home. The sky was black with storm clouds, and the air was wet with furious rain. Young Stan’s coat soaked, and the rain seeped through his hat into his hair. The air was cold, and gave the young boy goosebumps as he hurried along the road.  
But then, he saw odd things lying in the middle of the road. Abandoned and soaked sat a small collection of maps, a container of sweets, a bag of hefty books, a shoebox full of shoes and flowers, and a destroyed basket with its contents emptied out on the road and crushed. Young Stan, wondering why anyone would leave such an assortment on the road, looked all around for who they belonged to, but found no one. Just as he was about to walk away from the items, a loud, pained whimper came from the forest.  
Worried for the hurt animal, young Stan hurried into the forest. He followed the whimpering deeper and deeper into the forest until he was covered with mud up to the heels. The fog, or perhaps it was mist, that hung in the darkness reached up to the tree tops, and the dirt of the forest meshed with the rain into mud. The darkness was thick, and the air reeked of filth and foliage. With feet soaked in mud, young Stan stopped his hurry and wiped his shoes free of the leaves and dirt that soaked him. But, as he began to walk again, a loud, rusty screech, one similar to that of rustic metal grinding together, could be heard from his left. He hurried to the sound of screech, and with every step it’d be heard again, louder and louder until, finally, he arrived to the source of the rusty screeches.  
In the middle of the forest, corroded and old, sat a swing set, and on the swing, sat a boy. The boy wore an oversized, orange parka, with the hood pulled over his head. His head hung down and his back was hunched over, and he watched his feet as he swung just barely back and forth.  
“Don’t let the wolf into your bed,” the boy sang in a whisper, just barely hearable above the rain, “He’ll take your soul and eat your head.”  
“Excuse me?” young Stan asked, taking a step forward.  
“Inside the haunting, hallow space, licking his fingertips of cake,” he continued to sing  
“Did you hear a dog near here?”  
But then, the boy in orange changed his song, singing many sad haa’s and singing faster on the swing.  
Stan stepped up to the boy in orange, grabbing the chain of the swing and yelling, “Have you heard a dog nearby? I think it may be injured!”  
The boy in orange hushed and gave a slow, thoughtful nod.  
“Where is it?” young Stan asked.  
The boy shook his head with disapproval, grabbing the other boy’s hand firmly with his bloodied fingers. Young Stan pulled his hand away, shocked by all the fresh, wet blood that dripped from the boy in orange’s hands. Now that he was close, he could see that the boy in orange was also had an unsightly amount of fresh blood dressing his legs as well. Young Stan took a few steps back and asked the boy, “Are you okay?”  
The boy in orange stood up from the swing and looked over to young Stan, exposing his face. His eyes were dead and empty, his nose gushed blood down his lips, down his chin, and onto his parka, blood was splashed onto his cheeks, and his neck was cut open and spilling blood profusely onto his clothes, as though his neck had been slit by a sharp blade.  
Young Stan ran from the boy, screaming in horror. He ran and ran through the rainy forest, his eyes wide with horror, until he saw something even more horrifying: an elegant-looking boy his age collapsed on a table cloth that sat in the dirt. Tea cups were tossed all around him, and blood oozed from his mouth in bubbles, washing onto the table cloth in the rain. His eyes were even still open and glazed over.  
Horrified, Stan dropped down to his knees and grabbed the boy’s shoulders as he screamed, “Gregory! Gregory, wake up!” But Gregory did not wake up.  
Footsteps could be heard in the distance, nearing young Stan. Stan hurried to his feet and continued to run. But, young Stan’s vision was blurred by the rain and his tears, and he tripped on a strange mass. When the boy looked back to see what he’d tripped over, it only horrified him more. A blonde boy with disheveled hair rested on the ground. He was soaked with rain and covered in leaves, and his shirt was pulled up in the back by a low branch that it had been caught on.  
“Tweek, no Tweek!” young Stan cried out, grabbing the boy’s shirt collar, “No wake up!” But Tweek did not wake up.  
The boy in orange was nearing him now, so Stan hopped up to his feet and hurried away. He ran and he ran, on the verge of hysterics. He let out a petrified yelp when a voice was heard, singing softly, but noticeably, in the forest. Upon its appearance, a second set of footsteps sounded against the mud and leaves, echoing against the trees.  
Stan ran faster, only to come across yet another body resting in the mud and rain. A burnt child, with wide, betrayed eyes. His whole front was burned, it was painful to young Stan to gaze upon, with burnt thighs and palms as well.  
“Pip, c’mon,” young Stan muttered miserably, dropping down to his knees and touching the burnt hair on the boy’s head, “Wake up, please!” But Pip did not wake up.  
The singing became more distinct, and the second set of footsteps became louder, and Stan hurried to his feet and ran for his life. While he ran, he let out terrified, frantic cries and rubbed his eyes of the tears and rain. Until the singing faded deeper in the forest, and the footsteps got quieter, and Stan stopped to breathe.  
But, just as he stopped, his feet sunk into the mud. He tried to pull himself free, but only ended up tumbling down onto the ground, which collapsed underneath him, into a hole he had not seen beforehand. He scrambled to secure himself on top of the mud and spit out all the mud and leaves in his mouth. Once he secured himself, however, he saw yet another disturbing sight.  
A blonde girl, a beautiful girl, his age rested in the mud reaching her torso. Her eyes were shut and her mouth hung open, but blood spilt from her head, into her hair, and down her face. A shovel rested beside her, bloodied and dirtied, and obviously the weapon.  
“Bebe!” young Stan cried, crawling over to her and tugging on her arm, “Bebe, please, no, wake up!” But Bebe didn’t wake up.  
Young Stan cried out for help, pulling himself up the slab of mud. Again, he cried, dropping his head onto his muddy arm. The next thing he knew, he was being pulled into thickly sleeved arms, and whisked away in the rain. He didn’t know who was carrying him, but he clung to them, and cried into their shoulder.  
The boy felt as though they’d walked for an hour in the never ending rain when finally, he opened his eyes and saw the orange parka he’d clung to. Horrified, struggled to break free from the boy in orange’s arms. Once he was free, he ran for his life along a wooden fence. The boy followed him, along with a more distant set of footsteps, companied by a faded singing.  
Young Stan ran and ran, until he saw the most horrible sight of them all. His best friend, a thin boy in a green cap with wild curls sticking out of it, collapsed on a broken section of the fence. The boy had splinters and wood pieces stuck all over his face and arms, but the blood around him came from the large, irritated gash on his leg, caused by a giant, sharp piece of fence that tore through his pants and deep into his flesh. But also, the blood came from a piece of wood stuck in his neck, poking out like a knife.  
“Kyle!” Young Stan cried, “Kyle no! Kyle, wake up!” But Kyle did not wake up.  
The footsteps only became louder behind young Stan, and the singing became closer, and Stan knew it was much too late. He ran, running all the way to a flowing river with a strong current. When he stopped and turned around, he was surprised to see a new boy, dressed in all black, with dark hair and pale skin. He was singing a song of many innocent la la la la la la la’s and cheerful ha, ha, ha, ha’s. The boy in black neared young Stan, singing with a smile on his face.  
“Help me, please,” Stan pleaded, dropping down onto his dirty knees.  
But the boy didn’t break his song, and he kept singing until the song was over, and he finished with a soft, “La…la.” But then, the boy smiled evilly and licked his lips.  
Young Stan scurried back, inching towards the river. But, the boy in black just took a step closer. Young Stan pulled himself up to his feet, crying softly. He took one step back, and the other boy took one step forward. Young Stan shook his head in denial, and the boy in black leapt onto him, sending them both into the flowing river.  
The boy in black kept young Stan’s head firmly underneath the water as they were pulled along with the current, until young Stan no longer resisted, and was pulled away in the water. The boy in black, swift as he was, pulled himself up from the water and safely onto shore. His eyes met with the boy in orange, who cried silently with his head in his hands. The boy in orange didn’t sing. He didn’t make a sound. Neither did the boy in black, and they quietly listened to the rainfall.


	7. Belated Prologue - Damien & Kenny

There was once a town surrounded by a dark forest. It was a small town, and it quickly grew crowded as families grew and people moved in. So, as it grew crowded, some of the townsfolk had sent in workers to cut down the trees and build them a home. These axmen, strong and dangerous, stayed out in the woods for quite a length of time to build these lots and homes, so all of the parents advised their children to stay away from the forest and stay in sight, lest they run into axmen and get hurt.  
Damien was young boy who lived in the town, and feared no one. He was strong and powerful, despite his young age, and his morals were so low and selfish, he’d take down everything in his way. He wore all black, all the time, and had dark eyes that penetrated. Don’t be mistaken, as Damien had the most golden of tongues, and could talk his way out of trouble with just about anyone. He would not hit, insult, or glare at others unless he saw as fit, but most everyone could see that behind his smile was a plotting glare of evil.  
Damien had a friend named Kenny, who quite different. He was a quiet boy, with his head in the gutter and his heart speaking loud. He was kind, but never one to say no to an adventure. Young Kenny would never live a moment outside of his orange parka, with the hood pulled over his head. It muffled his voice extremely, and some would say they couldn’t even understand him, when he did talk, at least. But those who were familiar with Kenny knew what each and every distorted muffle meant.  
One day, young Damien came up to his friend and told him to join him on a trip into the forest. While at first, Kenny was skeptical, and didn’t want to go into the forest, he eventually gave into his friend’s persuasion, and went into the forest with him.  
In the forest, the two boys played long games of tag, hide-and-go-seek, and pick-up-sticks, until they grew tired, and decided to go home. But, along the way, the two boys saw a large man with a large axe in his hands. The man chopped at the trees, tearing them down and moving onto the next. Young Damien, being as curious as he was, decided to confront the woodsman.  
“Why’re you cutting down the trees, sir?” he asked.  
But, as soon as the man with the ax turned to see the two boys, the tree he had been working on fell on young Kenny, and crushed him. The man grew anxious, and chopped the other boy in half, and threw the bodies into a hole and buried them so no one would ever know.  
But, the boys came back the very next day to seek revenge upon the woodsman. So they waited in the forest like the ghosts they were, and when they finally found young Damien’s murder, they stole his ax, and chopped his head off.  
Damien, being as evil-minded as he was, decided that that was not good enough, and decided to stay in the woods as a ghost to seek vengeance upon all of those who go in the forest. Young Kenny, however, was not happy with the idea, and vowed to help those who dared fall into the temptation of going into the forest. Sometimes he succeeded, sometimes he failed.  
Sometimes they lived, sometimes they died.


	8. EPILOGUE

It was very late at night when Kyle awoke in the mud and a pile of broken wood. He was bloody, but he paid it no mind, and pulled the thick, dangerous splinter from his neck. He pulled himself from the ground and trudged through the forest with his eyes on his feet and his head hanging low. He was limping, and his leg felt broken, but he paid it no mind. He made his way expertly back onto the road, and dared not even a glance up as he walked in silence.  
The night was clear, and the moon hung full in the clear, night sky. It was silent, and young Kyle could hear the crickets in the grass, and the owls in the trees, and nothing else. When he finally arrived in town, it was still silent. Not even he made a sound. Not a pained whimper, not a tired sigh, not even a heavy breath was heard from this boy.  
His body ached. He was bloody, and splinters still stuck to his face. But, he paid it no mind, and kept walking. Soon enough, he made his way back into town, where he made his way straight home, opened the front door, and made his way quickly into his bed, where he lie down and go to bed.  
…  
Late at night, Bebe awoke in a hole, half buried in mud. She easily pulled herself out from the mud, but her head hurt horribly, and blood and even more mud soaked her face and hair. Her lower body was covered in dirt and rain. But, she paid no mind to the mess, and pulled herself from the hole.  
Young Bebe walked knowingly, and kept her head down at her dirty feet. She walked and walked, with only the sound of her footsteps in her ears, until she finally made it back onto the road. Her eyes were glazed over, and she held her arm hurtfully. She did not look in the forest, she did not consider it, and she walked straight into town without a sound. Not a cry, not a laugh, not even a tired or hurt breath, or sigh.  
From atop her head was a throbbing that not even medicine could heal. But still, she paid it no mind, and continued forward. When young Bebe finally made it into town, she went straight to her home, walked inside, and went to her bed, where she lay quietly.  
…  
When the moon was at its fullest, Pip awoke on his back in the wet dirt. His hair, his flesh, and his clothing, were burnt, and his skin ached under the cool breeze that hung in the air, but Pip paid it no mind, and picked himself from the ground. His head was low, his eyes were on the ground, and his lips were parted. His arms dangled at his side as he walked familiarly through the dark place.  
This time, he dared not even wonder if anyone was around, and he dared not make a sound. Not of pain, not of exhaustion, not of happiness or fear. No sound came from his parted lips. He was silent, aside from his heavy limping against the muddy, forest floor.  
In due time, he returned to the road, and headed straight for town. Still, he dared not even tilt his head in the direction of the darkness that lingered in the forest. His head stayed low and he made no sound. There were no crickets, even. There were no birds, no sounds of the flowing river, and everything was perfectly silent. When he finally made it back into town, he went immediately to the orphanage, and did not even contemplate going anywhere else, or taking any longer route. He went straight into his room, and straight into his bed, and rested in silence and solitude.  
…  
It was still the dark hours when Tweek awoke. He was lying on the ground with a front and face full of dirt and mud. His shirt was ripped in the back, and revealed part of his shoulder, but he paid it no mind and picked himself up from the dirt. He hung his head low and clutched the sides of his face lightly, keeping his gaze low. He was silent, not making an anxious mumble, or fearful panting, or hesitant gasps. He was silent, and so was the world around him.  
Eventually he made it onto the road, and headed straight for town. He dared not even wonder what lies in the forest. His gaze stayed at his feet and his hands stayed holding his face. His chest ached, like he had been stabbed in the heart, or perhaps as though his heart had exploded in his chest. But, though it throbbed, he paid it no mind, and kept walking.  
Finally, when he made it back to town, he made a beeline for his home. The town was just as quiet as the road, with only dim lights from inside of the houses to prove that anyone lived there. No dogs barked. No cats meowed. No children laughed. Everything was quiet. When young Tweek finally made it back to his home, he quietly went inside, and went straight to his bedroom, where he went to bed, silently.  
…  
Still, the sun had not even teased the clouds when Gregory awoke. He was collapsed over a table cloth that rested on the muddy, forest floor. A string of blood came from his mouth, to a puddle of blood at his face. But, he paid it no mind, and picked himself up without wiping his face clean. He held the back of his neck and began to walk sophisticatedly through the forest with his eyes watching his feet, and nowhere else.  
His stomach ached, and sickness lingered inside of him. While he was sure he was going to vomit, he did not, and kept on walking. He made no sound. Not a single growl of shame, or sigh of arrogance, or even a groan of sickness came from him. He, just like the entire forest, was perfectly silent.  
Eventually, he made it back onto the road, where it was still just as silent, and still just as dark. He turned to head back into town, but kept his head low. Even when he got back into town, not a word had been uttered, or had a breath been breathed. Quickly, he made it back to his own home. He made a slow pace to get inside, but headed straight into his room, and straight onto his bed, where he went straight to sleep.  
…  
Kenny touched his bloody hand to the water. Down at the bottom of the river sat a young boy in a brown and red jacket and blue jeans. He had dark hair, and a bloody face that had been hit against many rocks. It did not take Kenny a second glance to know that the boy had died, and it brought a tear to his eye.  
Young Kenny pulled the boy out from the water and gave him a soft hug. He was crying heavily, shaking with sobs as he held the soaked boy. “Goodbye, Stan,” he said in a whisper. And so, he let go of the boy, and let him fall back in the river, and ran away.  
The End


End file.
